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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828133">Love, If We Ever Accept It</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainonmyback/pseuds/rainonmyback'>rainonmyback</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>House M.D.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Autistic Greg House, Drug Addiction, Emotionally Repressed, Feelings Realization, Flashbacks, Greg House is Bad With Emotions, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Repression, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Timeline What Timeline, james wilson is repressed as well, may or may not be a sex scene somewhere later i havent decided yet lol, okayyy this is gonna be a long one folks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:21:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,585</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainonmyback/pseuds/rainonmyback</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At age 12, Gregory House already knew what love was.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg House/James Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hiiii so i'm trying something very different. i hope u enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>At age 12, Gregory House already knew what love was. Love was freezing, unfazed, unkempt. Love was something you could sometimes watch on a television, maybe even believe you feel it as you see the two idiots kiss. Love was a Father, screaming and yelling, denouncing your existence, because he loves you. Because he’s your Father, so why shouldn’t he love you? What kind of child would dare question their parents’ love? What kind of thing would challenge it’s own creators?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Love must be a method, something you have to work hard on, to perfect. Something that is unattainable, the last good breath before you’re knocked out. Cold water. Always with the cold water, </span>
  <em>
    <span>huh, Dad? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Love was painful. Love was always getting someone hurt. Love was a sickness, pain, the thing that makes you flinch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stacy was supposed to fix this. Stacy was supposed to be the pill that cleans, that repairs. Stacy was a lot of things, but ultimately? She wasn’t the one. She was love too, in a way. In many ways. Betrayal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Love was something that would always leave him feeling more miserable. More worthless. More pointless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stuck. House was stuck. With this bum leg, with this little thing in his brain, something like his Father, sometimes a creation of his own. Telling him to go over the edge. That this can be solved relatively easily. That there’s no such thing as tortured geniuses, only idiots who can sometimes do things right, but never be happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s not happy. He can’t remember what it was ever like. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gregory House decided love wasn’t worth it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soft, even tone. It makes him feel like a kid who took a tumble. A mother, ready to examine, to treat. Lisa Cuddy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>House felt small, only for a minute, before making himself big again. He can’t have anything of that, no sir.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am now,” House said, gesturing to Cuddy’s top. It was a dark purple, professional, yet </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>flattering for her...well…”nice of you to let the girls make an appearance.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cuddy gave him the usual </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re such an ass</span>
  </em>
  <span> look, hand pushing her top up slightly. Still, her eyes look unconvinced. Cuddy was always unconvinced with House. That was, like, her thing. Pestering, nagging--</span>
  <em>
    <span>no, House, you can’t electrocute the coma patients, no, House, you can’t give a brain transplant to a child with acute anemia, no, House, you can’t fill your many voids and pains with Vicodin,</span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em> no, House--</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well, it doesn’t matter, because Cuddy’s not asking anything. Just looking. He doesn’t even remember her coming into his office. Maybe one of the ducklings asked her to check up on him. Probably Cameron. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ugh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not like you to get like this over a patient.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah, yes. Their patient. Male. 43 years old. Armeinan, or whatever Foreman said. Came in bleeding out of, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Had a few too many seizures, and his brain was one good shake away from exploding it seemed. Iron levels were dangerously low, and his seemingly poisonous blood was solidifying in his veins. Cool, gross, but cool. No one else thought so, though. He went blind. And deaf. And, then, before they could try another test, make any other smart remarks, he was gone. Dead. Over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two days later they figured out what was wrong with him. He lied. They all do. Not that it matters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thought you’d be happy that I suddenly showed some care towards my poor, sweet, suffering patients.” House replied, twirling around his cane. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t sad about the loss. Sure, it sucked that they didn’t figure out the puzzle. There was something else. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You need to help him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What a great opener from a man, a stranger, barging into his office. Lovely way to kick off this Friday afternoon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you are…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man’s hair was...unclean, to say the least. Big, dark eyes, with even bigger bags forming underneath of them. Soft cheeks, soft face. Clothes, while expensive looking, were ruffled. Looked like he slept in them, or at least worryingly marinated.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tired. Scared. Oh. It’s family. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m Albert </span>
  <span>Torosyan’s husband. Your patient--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Still dying. I know. Now leave.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked taken aback, as they all do. Doctors are supposed to have some kind of bedside manner, or whatever. Just seemed like something used to help dummies feel better about nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You...your team hasn’t come up with anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve come up with a few things, actually,” House said, making his way to the door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Need food</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “it’s just none of them have worked, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s all?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>House opened the door, taking his exit,  “Yup.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Day five, the final day. Wednesday morning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No solutions. No answers. Useless. Greg House felt useless. Small.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did any of you brainless idiots actually go to med school?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cameron’s eyebrows furrow, Foreman rolls his eyes and Chase actually looks hurt. Reactions, just what the doctor ordered. Too bad it doesn’t cure anything. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t figured out anything, either.” Foreman argues. Ah, well. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something snippy comes out, he can’t really remember what. Probably a black joke. Then they all slowly bounce ideas off of each other. It ends up being pointless. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The husband, looking somehow worse, comes back into his office. As desperate as ever. He looks dehydrated. House almost asks him if he needs a drink. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s going to die!” The man says, scared and </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “he’s going to die because of you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My apologies. Didn’t realize I infected your betrothed with some mystery disease. Crazy night we had. Maybe you should be checked out too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man came closer to House’s desk, and for a moment, he had to suppress the urge to flinch, thinking that he’d punch him, or something. He didn’t.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I love him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay?</span>
  </em>
  <span> That’s kind of expected. Of course, you love your husband. Most people do love the people they’re married to, or at least, act like they do. Think they do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But why state it now, to him? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stupid people say things that don’t matter when they’re afraid, uncertain. When they have anyone in their general line of sight to hear. House doesn’t have the energy for this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not going to save him.” House says, not even really realizing why.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He, yet again, is moving to the door. He needs to talk to Wilson. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ophelia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi i just wanted to put a warning for this one!! TW -- HOMOPHOBIC SLURS</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A boy was walking down the sidewalk, presumably to his house. School was let out about 10 minutes ago. James, Peter, Zeke &amp; Todd were walking, all behind him. The boy was geek-ish to say the least. Awkward body, kind of lanky, yet still small. Thick glasses, pimpled, walked with a bounce. Had a suitcase instead of a school bag. A perfect target. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look at that faggot.” Peter snickered. Zeke and Todd laughed, one admitting that they were just about to say that. James can’t focus on which it was. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>James Wilson was fourteen years old. He loved his World History class, hated anything to do with Trigonometry (even though he was almost near perfect at it), was nervous about Homecoming, and had a god-awful pit in his stomach. That word. </span><em><span>That</span></em> <em><span>word. </span></em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hated it. It felt so uncomfortable. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, </span>
  </em>
  <span>more than that. It felt dirty. A punch to the gut, though he couldn’t--</span>
  <em>
    <span>he wouldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>--understand why. The other boys made one or two more jokes, before going onto another topic. Something about the hot new Spanish teacher. James barely listened to his friends, the more and more he thought about it. He had met them all in a study hall, out of pure chance. They all needed...help...with their math homework. He obliged, and they started hanging around. Taking him to movies with them. Bowling, once. Todd was on the hockey team, so they’d all come to cheer him on. His girlfriend, Jess (he thinks?), would tag along too, and they’d all get drunk together afterwards. It was nice. It was fine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His Mother thought it was great. He had a group, a posse, people to find a belonging in. His father thought it’d give him character, to be with such, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy </span>
  </em>
  <span>boys. Rowdy, noisy, always joking and being, well, vulgar. Normal teen stuff, right? Sure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sure, </span>
  </em>
  <span>James thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I have normal friends. I have a normal life. I’m normal.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But when he hears</span>
  <em>
    <span> that </span>
  </em>
  <span>word. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he hears that word, he feels like a mouse caught in the trap, writhing and squeaking. Begging for mercy. He feels like someone’s turned on the lights. Something awful, something </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrible</span>
  </em>
  <span>, deep inside of him, ducks for cover. Shys away. Feels weak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James Wilson is weak. He does what he’s told. He’s a good boy. Careful, quiet, mindful of others. Todd tells him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>loosen up, have a beer</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So he does. Zeke tells him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch NASCAR</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So he does. Peter tells him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>look at the faggot.</span>
  </em>
  <span> So he does. He does, and something shakes within. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>James Wilson likes girls. Girls are soft, pretty, smell nicer than 98% of the boys he knows. Most know how to make good conversation. He’s friends with some girls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Girls like Penny in his homeroom, always with her strawberry lip gloss, bleached hair, and endless boy band knowledge. Miranda in his 8th period, shy and gentle, big almond eyes, a bookworm. She recommended a really good mystery novel to him once. Ava in his lunch, the theatre girl. A strong soprano voice, pretty, almost black locks, and purple eyeshadow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Girls are nice. Girls are good. Girls are normal. And, James Wilson is a very normal boy. He knows that boys like pretty girls. Boys like to get shitfaced drunk, and cry into their pillow night. Boys like to, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>should be</span>
  </em>
  <span>, gawking, looking for a girl to kiss. Boys like to do boy things. Obvious answer. Simple. Clear. But, a mess stirs within, all too much to completely ignore. All too much because it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ava keeps trying to nudge him into doing the school’s theatre program. James can’t do the plays. He can’t. No fucking way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Only fairies do plays. Not normal boys like him. He can’t like Into the Woods &amp; Les Mis. He can’t </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>not </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>like girls. He can’t cry all the time, no matter how much he wants to lately. He can’t skip out on doing fuck knows what with the guys. He can’t forget to push it all down, drown everything out. He can’t forget what he has to be. Who he should be. What he needs to do, and how he needs to do it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Be normal. Be normal. </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>Please, just be fucking normal. </em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, Jimmy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The name snaps him out of himself, back into the real world, where they’re almost at Zeke’s house. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” he lets out, sounding as dumb as he feels. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna help me with my paper, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Help.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Yeah, right. He means do. Do the paper. And it’s not a question, really. Just a reminder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah. Sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Todd smiles, “Sweet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just another thing James Wilson has to do, because these nonsense rules he’s built for himself command him to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Patient’s hubby keeps begging me to fix him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>House says this whilst snatching Wilson’s sandwich. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah, yes.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Right on cue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a peaceful setting, too peaceful. The cafeteria wasn’t too crowded, and Wilson’s work day had been pretty okay so far. He was dreading his 4 o’clock appointment though. Seven year old. Sadie. Likes My Little Pony and rollerskating. Brain cancer. Not gonna make it to her eighth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>your job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>House took a generous bite from what was now his turkey sandwich. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“D’ be great if the guy would just tell the truth.” he said through chews. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gross. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wilson shuffles in his seat. He’s always hated watching people eat, but something about House always makes it seem like he’s purposely doing it disgustingly, just to catch Wilson pulling a face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s lying? How do you know?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilson doesn’t even know why he asked that one. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everybody lies</span>
  </em>
  <span>, afterall. Even Jesus, probably. Not that he’s well versed on that guy. But, to the bastardly genius, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one is safe from their own bullshit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Touche, he supposes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Apparently, Mr. Unlucky is talkative, yaps a whole lot. Y’know, when he’s not oozing from every orifice,” House explains, taking yet another bite, “but as soon as his honeybunch comes in, he’s dead silent.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Wilson says, drawn out and slow, “that doesn’t really mean he’s a liar.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But he is.” And somehow, House is already finishing up the sandwich. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dammit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “And I have to figure what about, or he’s gonna die.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And there it is. Something, something inside him softens, watching those pretty blues. Wilson must be sick, or tired, or maybe he’s starving from the lack of turkey sandwich in his stomach, because the mere basic acknowledgement that House ponders and assumes and </span>
  <em>
    <span>prods </span>
  </em>
  <span>so much because, no matter how cold and downright asshole-ish he can be, he cares, makes him feel awfully, painfully fond. He wants to solve the puzzle, and cure this guy. He wants to save his life. He cares. Embarrassment creeps into the oncologist’s mind, just at how much he thinks about it. <em>All the fucking time. </em></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Best of luck.” Wilson says, watching House get up. He noticed the way his teeth clenched as he moved onto his feet. His leg must be hurting a little more than usual today. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Luck is for the cancer kiddies and believers. And I’m a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Godless ape.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” House retorts, pulling that stupid face that always makes Wilson laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as House is out of sight, he realizes how much emptier the cafeteria is. Less people. More space. Less House. More thoughts. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wilson decides to get something from the vending machine. That’s pretty normal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other boys were talking about something, probably tits or Bruce Willis or whatever is cool in this era. James Wilson was writing an essay that didn’t belong to him. It was about Ophelia. He liked Hamlet a lot, actually, so this wasn’t that hard for him. English class was pretty fun, at least when they weren’t taking boring vocabulary tests. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ophelia always seemed like the most tragic character of that play, in his opinion. All she ever wanted was love. Someone to complete her, to make her feel human. Someone to look at her, and see the world. Hamlet’s love, something forbidden, yet so natural to her. She was too naive, too reckless with herself. It was pitiful, upsetting. All she wanted was a happy ending. And instead she met her fate in a cold, uncaring river. It wasn’t fair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know what topic they’re onto next, something about a kid in Zeke’s chemistry class, or whatever. Mindless chit-chat, some swears, giggles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then it happens again. That word. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s never fair. It’s never gonna be fair. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Connections</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Connections. Life is full of connections. Paths, all meeting each other, in one way or another. There’s always something that fits all the pieces into place, that always brings everything together. Consistency. Answers. House was all for the mystery and the answer. The chase, the maze, all of the missing pieces picked up and put back. Logic. </p><p> </p><p>Feelings do not have logic. They can’t be relied on. The risk of it falling apart, the risk of it not working, the risk of it not solving it all, makes it illogical.<em> It makes it stupid.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The second Gregory House saw James Wilson, he knew it was going to be a problem. A huge, unavoidable problem. But an interesting one. Maybe one that doesn’t have to be one at all, really. Not if he tries. </p><p> </p><p>Trying is so fucking hard. It’s like a rash, you can’t just ignore it once it starts, once you set it off. It spreads, the fucker agitates, and aches and itches you into madness until you do something about it. Effort, in the end, always has a way of fucking up.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a bad day, House concurs. <em> Fucking awful, actually. </em>The patient is dying, even more rapidly than before, somehow. They can’t pinpoint the exact thing that’s the core of this case--the infection, or perhaps the genetics? A mix? It has to be a mix, right? Surely, that’s the answer, right, because if it’s not House might just eat glass. </p><p> </p><p>The husband’s been giving him and the team looks. Anger, insult, offence, pure, unfiltered rage, bitter disgust. <em> Hurt. </em> He’s hurt. Why shouldn’t he be? But, House didn’t put his lover into this state, unfortunately, because if he had, then at least they’d <em> know </em> what the fuck was wrong.</p><p> </p><p>House is undeniably having a shit day. It’s not gonna be any better tomorrow, he oh-so cleverly predicts. He then pops another vicodin, the familiar texture of the pills welcomed and savored. In the quiet night, in his office, he breathes. No ideas, no brainstorming, no Cameron’s bleeding, ever so annoying heart, none of Foreman’s judgemental side-eye, not a single gaping, wordless Chase. No talk of symptoms or death or planning or suffering. Nothing. Just breathing. <em> In and out, In and out.  </em></p><p> </p><p>And still, it’s Hell, because not even in stillness can he find a moment’s peace. <em> Fuck, the leg.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Leg. Leg. Leg. Leg. My fucking useless leg.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Pounding, ripping, <em> excruciating </em> pain, all the time, pulsating inside, screaming at him.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, without so much as a single syllable of thought, House holds the whole vicodin bottle. Sometimes his mind tells him where each and every little stache of his is. Where he could find a good coke and heroin dealer, at any hour, at a reasonable price. How he could just burst through the doors, out the building, and jump in front of a moving car.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, House doesn’t think, funnily enough. That’s where the danger creeps. And the pain <em> seeps-- </em></p><p> </p><p>Wilson is staring at him. James Fucking Wilson, one of oncology’s finest, most manipulative empaths, probably had to say goodbye to at least two cancer kiddies today, is staring at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. </p><p> </p><p>And it isn’t saturated with pity.</p><p> </p><p>Okay, maybe it is. Just a little. No matter how good, <em> how perfect </em>, Wilson is, he’s still human. The frown lines deepen when he sees House in pain. It’s fine.</p><p> </p><p>But he never looks at him like the others do--with this sort of shamefulness. <em> You poor thing. Poor little guy. All hurt and alone. </em> Like a kicked dog. Never like that. Not his Wilson. And not this House.</p><p> </p><p>Wilson has connected more than a few dots. </p><p> </p><p>“Bad day, I take it?”</p><p> </p><p>House makes a noise. A grunt, sort of. He hadn’t even realized until just then that he’d been biting his lip. <em> Hard. </em> Hard enough for there to be a rather bitchin’ sting. His leg must be really bad right now. Maybe another vicodin could make some magic finally happen. </p><p> </p><p>Before he can fish out the bottle, Wilson is coming towards him, lowering himself. And then, <em>his hands.</em> <em>Jesus Christ, his hands</em> are on him, his leg, his fucking hopeless, shitty leg, is being touched. Soothed, motions calm and gentle. Ghostly, almost. As if it’s<em>--he’s--</em>testing out the waters. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Come on in, James. The water’s fine.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His hands are his best asset, House decides right then and there. Beautiful, crafting hands. If Wilson was a French lad back in the 1600s, he would’ve been a sculptor, he’s sure of it. Sweet, slow hands, not pressing, just being. Warm, good hands, addictive and fucking <em> excellent </em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Is..Is this helping at all?”</p><p> </p><p>And House nods feverishly. It’s a lie, sort of. Technically.</p><p> </p><p>No, the pain isn’t gone. It’s still huffing and puffing, agonizing and hellish, throbbing and thrashing within him. Like a bratty child, throwing a tantrum--<em> I’m here! I’m here forever! Forever, fucker! </em> But James Wilson’s touch, his <em> hands </em>, make him feel like he’s okay. Safe, something coaxed away and separated from the hurt. </p><p> </p><p>Stacy’s touch never felt like this. None of his past flings or 3 AM whatevers ever have. Not even the boy toy he had in college, the one with the glossy lips and cherry cheeks. Not a single pair of hands can compare with James Wilson’s, he’ll take that statement to anywhere, with anyone, up against anything. Hell, he’ll fight God if he has to. <em> Y’know, if there were such a thing.  </em></p><p> </p><p>House looks at Wilson, whose attention is glued to his leg, still massaging and <em> touching </em> . Eyes big and full of worry and care. All the things that should, and normally would, make House flinch, recoil. Shoot away, into darkness, into agitation. Make him feel small, suffocating. But this is Wilson, so it’s different. It’s good. <em> It’s fucking great.  </em></p><p> </p><p>No one else could do this. No one else <em> should </em> do this. House feels naked, seen, uncovered for the world to see, and yet, he knows it’s just them. <em> Just them, only ever them.  </em></p><p> </p><p>If there’s one thing that’s a fact in this universe, it’s that House is connected to Wilson. And, it’s a problem. It <em> should </em> be a problem, he knows it. But, how can it be when Wilson’s mere presence, let alone the <em> holiness known as his touch </em>, grounds him more than any kind of drug or batshit impulse could?</p><p> </p><p>“You should let me do this more often, since you refuse professional massage therapy. Y’know--” </p><p> </p><p>And, whatever good-intentioned lecture the other man’s spilling out is miles away from House’s ears. <em> You should let me do this more often. Let me do this. More often. Often. </em></p><p> </p><p>Tonight, Gregory House has forgotten what vicodin is.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>feedback is much appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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